


Slice of Heaven

by tricerasaurus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Baker AU, Coffeeshop AU, Fluff, M/M, Semi Angst, baker!semi, chef!shirabu, everyone works at their respective area of employment, flower shop au, guys theres just lots of tattoos all around i love tattoos, lotsof au's hold on to your horses, tattoo artist au, tattoo!AU, tattooartist!tendou, tensemi fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8006638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricerasaurus/pseuds/tricerasaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tendou couldn’t believe Kuroo was doing this to him. It definitely wasn’t his fault for challenging Kuroo. Nope, not at all. He made his way through the crowded bar and took the seat to the left of the man so Kuroo couldn’t see the terrified expression on his face. He noticed the man had a gin and tonic in front of him. Tendou usually didn’t have much luck with the sophisticated beverage crowd, he tended to mingle more with the lovers of cheap beer and shoots patrone. Tendou ordered a rum and coke, hoping the slow consumption of alcohol would give him the power to make it through this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shots (x16) Everybody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could have anyone at this bar, if I wanted to.”
> 
> Kuroo took another long sip from his glass, surveying the stuffy atmosphere of his current favorite haunt, a sports bar where peanut shells littered the floor and the main demographic was straight, 50-year-old men with beer bellies so big some of them looked wider than they were tall. He spotted his target, a man about Tendou’s age with a permanent frown and sharp observant eyes. He would’ve reminded him of Kenma, the florist across the street and his best friend since childhood, except for a kind of fire behind his eyes that told Kuroo his real hot-blooded nature. He had a small tattoo behind his ear. When he turned his head, Kuroo could see a small line that looped down along his hairline. It was understated and minimal, the kind of thing Tendou would never stand for. This should be interesting. He nodded in the man’s direction, “What about him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is a fic I'm writing for my lovely friend THE_HERO because they have fan breakdowns with me over this stuff and I appreciate it more than anything. ILY! <33 As always, this was betaed by Lachesis my lovely neighborhood friend and lover of Haikyuu!! Please enjoy fellow Tensemi/KuroKen shippers!!! (Also sorry if my characterizations of Tendou and Semi are bad, I swear I'm trying).

“I could have anyone at this bar, if I wanted to.”

Kuroo took another long sip from his glass, surveying the stuffy atmosphere of his current favorite haunt, a sports bar where peanut shells littered the floor and the main demographic was straight, 50-year-old men with beer bellies so big some of them looked wider than they were tall. He spotted his target, a man about Tendou’s age with a permanent frown and sharp observant eyes. He would’ve reminded him of Kenma, the florist across the street and his best friend since childhood, except for a kind of fire behind his eyes that told Kuroo his real hot-blooded nature. He had a small tattoo behind his ear. When he turned his head, Kuroo could see a small line that looped down along his hairline. It was understated and minimal, the kind of thing Tendou would never stand for. This should be interesting. He nodded in the man’s direction, “What about him?”

Kuroo almost laughed at Tendou’s expression when his eyes finally landed on the blonde-haired beauty, “No.”

“What Tendou, chickening out already?”

Tendou took another shot, “What? No, I’m not a chicken,  _ you’re _ the chicken. Watching Kenma from across the street like the creepy young man you are.”

Kuroo flicked him, “Get out of here before I take away your appointment tomorrow.”

Kuroo knew how much Tendou wanted to do the full back dragon tattoo, there was no way he’d give it up for anything. Tendou sighed, “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it, but okay,” Kuroo waved him off and sat back to enjoy the show.

*****

Tendou couldn’t believe Kuroo was doing this to him. It definitely wasn’t his fault for challenging Kuroo. Nope, not at all. He made his way through the crowded bar and took the seat to the left of the man so Kuroo couldn’t see the terrified expression on his face. He noticed the man had a gin and tonic in front of him. Tendou usually didn’t have much luck with the sophisticated beverage crowd, he tended to mingle more with the lovers of cheap beer and shooters of patrone. Tendou ordered a rum and coke, hoping the slow consumption of alcohol would give him the power to make it through this. 

As soon as the bartender slid the drink to him across the counter he took a sip and swivelled in his chair to lean against the counter and gave the man his most provocative smile, “Hey.”

The man glared at him, eyes flicking across Tendou’s tattoos which covered him basically from head to foot. They seemed to peak his interest, “Hello,” he said curtly, before taking a long sip from his gin and tonic.

Tendou swears he was going to say something witty and intelligent. But instead, after watching the guy’s adam’s apple bob up and down, making his throat go dry and pants seem suddenly too tight, all that came out was, “Aside from being ridiculously attractive, what do you do for a living.”

Black-tipped hair guy scoffed, “Not you, that’s for sure.”

The scathing tone he used probably would’ve convinced a wiser man to walk away right then and there, but Tendou found himself intrigued, “Well, it was worth a shot!”

The man smirked and muttered, “Or eight,” under his breath, downing the rest of the drink in front of him and holding his hand up for another.

Tendou laughed, holding his hand out for the man to shake, “Tendou Satori, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The man stared at his hand, as if calculating the level of risk he’d be taking by continuing this conversation any further, then shook it, “Semi Eita, likewise.”

The talked for a few more minutes, exchanging quips and observations. Surprisingly, Semi didn’t ask about his tattoos. It was usually the first thing people asked about and while, yes he was making a bit of a statement with some of them, talking about them could get exhausting after an entire night of it. Instead they explored their interests (both had an unhealthy obsession with volleyball) and careers (Semi was a baker, which Tendou thought was adorable, and Tendou was a tattoo artist, which Semi sensed). The night went quickly, ending when Semi looked down at his watch and left in a bit of a rush, claiming he had work early the next morning. Tendou believed him, one of his best friends, Nishinoya, was a baker and he usually worked through hours Tendou still considered the night before, despite the label “a.m.” on them. After Semi left, Tendou spent another couple drinks at the bar, smiling at his accomplishment, before returning to Kuroo’s corner table where he likes to sit and make other patrons uncomfortable. He pumped his fist into the air, Breakfast Club style and flopped into the seat next to Kuroo, pleasantly buzzed.

“So you get his number?”

Tendou slapped a hand to his forehead, “Shit.”

Kuroo patted his shoulder, “Good going, kiddo.”

*****

Four a.m. Four was far too early for any human being to be awake, let alone working. But here he was, ringing the buzzer to his new establishment of employment. While he waited, he remembered what had kept him up so late, drinking enough to earn himself a nice dull headache in the morning. The man with amazing gravity-resistant red hair and more tattoos than skin to put them on. Tendou Satori. His face and terrible pick up line had been interesting enough for Semi to talk with him all night, then forget to leave his number. He cursed his drunken self for getting caught up in the moment and messing up the one interaction of human contact he’d enjoyed in months. He hoped the new location and job would help get him back on his feet and find a new direction in life since his last one had failed so spectacularly.

The bakery was one store in a long strip of store windows displaying the goods inside. Very small town, main street. He could see a flower shop next to them and a tattoo parlor and cafe across the street that seemed to only sell coffee, advertising for anyone looking for a snack to stop by the Johsai bakery, where he now worked. The awning had alternating stripes of cream and turquoise. The inside of the shop was dark, lights from the back providing him enough light to see the few tables surrounding a small counter with a glass cover, where the pastries went. It was… quant. To put it kindly. Nothing like the kitchen he used to work in before new talent started overshadowing hard work and Semi had decided to find a new path to pave. He wasn’t quitting, he was just exploring his options. Now, instead of becoming a world class chef, he’d bake bread that would make the Dalai Lama weep for joy. 

The door swung open, there stood a man who looked just as stoked to be there as Semi did. Iwaizumi Hajime, his new boss and fellow hater of mornings. Iwaizumi grunted, letting him in and leading him to the back, where some fairly obscene rap music was playing and two men were kneading dough to the beat, singing along.

It was nice to see at least his hair would feel welcome among the present company. The taller (and buffer) of the two had grey (or white?) streaked hair pulled up into two pigtails and caged in a hair net (Semi hoped the hair net was optional, he had a hat he could wear). The significantly smaller one had a streak of lighter hair in the front that hung down, the rest of it gelled up to add a couple more inches to his meager height. He had tattoos that snaked from his wrists up past his sleeves and poked out a bit around his collar bones.

Iwaizumi stepped around Semi to the radio, turning it down. Both men protested, loudly, and Iwaizumi growled at them, “This is Semi Eita, he’ll be working with us until he get’s tired of dealing with you two.”

Pigtail guy pouted, “Hey, it wasn’t our fault Tsukki left, he just wasn’t cut out for the life of a baker.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, “Semi, the one refusing to accept reality is Bokuto Koutarou, and the spunky little one is Nishinoya Yuu.”

Nishinoya slammed down the bunch of dough he was working, “I’m not  _ small _ , I’m fun-sized,” he walked over and held out a flour-caked hand to Semi, “And you can call me Noya.”

Semi wondered how many more hands he’d have to shake, “Nice to meet you, Noya.”

Bokuto bounced over as well, but since his hands were covered in whatever icing he was making, he just waved, “You can call me Bokuto, if you want to learn from a true master, stick with me.”

“Bokuto, you bake bread. Please get over yourself,” Iwaizumi turned the music back up to a more reasonable level and walked over to a corner, gesturing for Semi to follow.

Semi heard Bokuto mumble behind him, “Yeah, but I make really good bread.”

“I know buddy, I know.”

For the next three hours before they opened, Semi got a crash course in mixing, kneading and baking. He’d seen enough bread and pastries to keep him happy for several lifetimes. He was also pleased to learn he didn’t have to wear a hairnet, as long as he kept it covered while he was baking, Bokuto just liked to because he was Bokuto. When they finally opened, Bokuto and Noya washed up and removed their aprons, moving to the front of the store to deal with the morning influx of customers. From the occasional glimpse he got while bringing out new trays to add to their supply, he could see most patrons were holding coffee cups adorned with a small crow.

When he asked about it Iwaizumi explained the rather complicated system they had going on. The cafe had been in business for far longer than the bakery, or any of the stores on the street for that matter. The two owners, named Daichi and Suga, took it over when Suga’s father decided he wanted to give up coffee for fly fishing and took the business to the next level by lining the street with interesting and fun stores to attract customers. Suga convinced Oikawa to open up his second flower shop across the street and Daichi won a bet with Kuroo, a renowned tattoo artist, and forced him to leave his shop, opening a new one and bringing in a plethora of artists from across the nation. This opened up the street to a new crowd and there was a pleasant clash between old and new, conservative and crazy. Semi kind of liked it.

Iwaizumi’s bakery had come later. After realizing neither Daichi nor Suga had the talent to bake, and finding many customers wouldn’t come unless there was promise of delicious carbs to dunk in their coffee, they went on a search for the best bakeries. They had no luck until Oikawa overheard them talking and got Iwaizumi, his childhood best friend, to quit his job and start his own shop. And now Semi was here, in the middle of what he wasn’t entirely convinced wasn’t a pyramid scheme.

Semi wouldn’t be dealing with customers for another week at least, he was told, because he still had a lot to learn. He hadn’t realized how intense baking was. There were so many things he could experiment with, flavors, types of dough, twists and styles. For the first time in a long time, he was enjoying himself. Iwaizumi was a good teacher and honest, which Semi respected. Noya and Bokuto were loud, bordering on extremely annoying, but entertaining. He never had a dull moment. And that’s probably why, after a long day of so much kneading and mixing his fingers ached, he got roped into going out for drinks with the two. Iwaizumi blushed when they asked him to join, he apparently had to hang out with Oikawa. He sounded put off, but Semi thought his expression had something very different to say.

They served the last customer of the day, an old man who couldn’t seem to decide between a chocolate cupcake and a double chocolate cupcake, with a warm smile (Semi didn’t know how Bokuto did it) and locked the door after him.

Then the clean-up process began. About half way through the day, they’d stopped baking and cleaned up the back, not a grain of flour out of place. But the main problem was the front room, where an assortment of people had been in and out all day. Semi wrinkled his nose at three dubious stains while Bokuto put all the leftovers into a package to take by the homeless shelter he volunteered at over the weekends.

When Semi had worked at the restaurant, the only people he talked to were pretentions assholes (not unlike himself) who would throw out everything at the end of the day, never dreaming of stepping within a 50 mile radius of a homeless person. Maybe this change really was for the better. As soon as the front room was spotless, Semi pulled on his coat, looking forward to a warm bath of epsom salts and a good binge session of Say Yes to the Dress.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, sending him stumbling forward a few feet, “Hey hey, Semi. Thought you’d sneak past us and miss out on your first night partying as a baker, did you?”

Shit.  He forgot, Semi spun around frantically, the beautiful bath in his mind quickly fading away to nothing but a dream, “Well, no, but I-”

“Buts only count in horseshoes and hand grenades, let’s go Semi!”

Noya stopped in his tracks right behind Bokuto and gave the back of his head his best stink eye, “Bo, that’s not right.”

Bokuto turned around, “What isn’t right?”

Noya waved his hands, “That saying. I can’t remember it for the life of me but I can tell you for a fact it doesn’t start with ‘but’.”

“It’s close. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” both Bokuto and Noya looked at him like he’d just walked out of a tomb sealed with a rock three days after his own death.

“We have to hang out with him more Noya, he’s a genius.”

Semi was pretty sure knowing common sayings didn’t make him Einstein exactly, but he was in need of friends. And that’s how he got roped into doing belly shots off of Bokuto in the middle of a club he would never have dreamed of going to.

Waking up the next morning was an experience. It started with a nice reunion between his face and the cool porcelain of his toilet, then a couple asperins as he sat in bed, nursing a hell of a hangover and making his headache ten times worse trying to remember what happened after Noya tried to outdrink him. He couldn’t let the little fucker win, what was he supposed to do? Just remembering sent him on a return trip to the bathroom. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then realized what he did and threw his shirt off. And noticed a note scrawled over his right forearm.

  
  


Semi-

Call for what can only hope to be a better time than you had last night.

-Tendou

Then a number with some shitty smiling dragon drawn next to it. When the fuck?

His body seized. Wasn’t Tendou a tattoo artist? Did they go to a  _ tattoo parlor _ ? Semi stripped down to his skivvies, checking his entire body for unwanted ink. It seems he got away unscathed, he wondered if the other two were so lucky. Suddenly he had an itch to repiece his night together. Calling Tendou seemed like a good place to start. Strictly out of curiosity. He didn’t just want to talk with the eccentric man. Definitely not. Headache be damned, he pulled out his phone (several texts and pictures from Bokuto informed him at least one of them had gone under the needle last night) and he called him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! Feel free to comment or kudos! If you want to talk on tumblr, [ here I am! ](http://hamahsauwus.tumblr.com/)


	2. I think I love you too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tendou didn’t have to spend long pining over his first crush in what felt like eons. Apparently the reserved, antisocial-looking man enjoyed getting completely hammered and turning up in his tattoo parlor, supported between two loud and equally as drunk people who looked vaguely familiar to Tendou, like he’d seen them in passing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Long time no see! I see now that I probably should've had more of a direction for this fic before posting it because honestly, its turning out to be quite the undertaking. But I am nothing if not determined so here it is! Chapter 2! (Sorry it took me so long HERO). Also, Lachesis! My precious (not piece of shit) vanilla bean bun! I am nothing without you, many heartus <3333\. I missed you guys :)

Tendou didn’t have to spend long pining over his first crush in what felt like eons. Apparently the reserved, antisocial-looking man enjoyed getting completely hammered and turning up in his tattoo parlor, supported between two loud and equally as drunk people who looked vaguely familiar to Tendou, like he’d seen them in passing.

The day had originally started out like any other, really. He’d rolled out of bed around 11 a.m. and made his way down the street to his work place. Tendou usually didn’t have to spend much time prepping for the day, a gruff, slightly-terrifying-to-small-children appearance was expected, and even coveted in some facets of the tattoo industry. Having tattoos meant you had experience (both of which Tendou had no lack of) and made clients feel safe in his hands. Which really made the process easier for him, the more anxious a client was in the chair, the more they would tense and fidget, making it extremely hard to keep his lines straight.

He had a couple college students from the local university stop by, looking to get flowers and butterflies done, a ‘frequent flyer’ coming in to get his chest piece finished and had just finished up with his third eighteen-year-old taking their first step in independence. Finally, at 7:40 p.m., twenty minutes before he was due to leave and about fifteen after Hinata left to stop by the flower shop before they closed, his edgy angel sauntered in. Well, more stumbled than walked. Obviously wasted. His cheeks flushed and eyes scrunched closed, long, dark eyelashes defined against the pale tone of his skin (Tendou started sweating). He was giggling at something the short man was saying while the taller one rang the bell at the counter. Asahi disappeared as soon as he heard, too afraid to ask all the invasive questions required when vetting a new client. Akaashi sat at the desk, sleeves rolled up showing the light lines of ink that trailed up his entire arm and ended at his collarbones in tendrils of writing and eucalyptus leaves, his nose dipped deep in the latest novel he’d picked up at the secondhand book shop down the street. The only sign he gave of being aware of the presence of the three was a brief eyeroll and a slightly more intense-than-usual frown on his face. He flipped a page of his book. After the third ring, he’d reached a stopping point and folded his hands in front of him, addressing the late night customers.

He raised a dark eyebrow betraying his curiosity, the rest his expression bored, “Can I help you?”

“WE WANT TATTOOS,” yelled the one with a truly incredible dye job, a full gray scale of color. One side of his hairdo looked flattened, like a dog with one floppy ear and one that stood at attention 24/7. Akaashi snapped his book shut, marking his page with a small slip of paper with various elegant doodles sketched out on it. 

They weren’t supposed to give tattoos to the inebriated. It wasn’t a law or anything, but the parlor had a reputation to keep and having random people complaining about your truly remarkable portrait of Liam Neeson in pastels on their ass was, regrettably, bad for business. But Akaashi had that look about him. The ‘I’m going to make you suffer because I know you won’t remember in the morning and you interrupted me in the midst of a very important scene’ look. For those who paid attention, Akaashi had some very distinct looks.

He pulled out a look book of tattoos and slapped it on the desk, taking the slurred names, numbers and IDs of the three new clients. Asahi peaked out from behind a corner, his meager curiosity overpowering his fear of other humans. The smallest of the bunch, who was at the moment arguing with Akaashi over the validity of his ID, rolled his eyes, causing him to notice the gentle giant cowering behind his chair.

The small man slapped his heavily tattooed arm down on the catalog of basic drunken tattoos and snapped a finger out to point at Asahi, “I WANT THAT ONE HE’S CUTE.”

The rich caramel color of Asahi’s face slowly drained, only to be replaced by a deep russet red. Tendou sent a silent prayer to Asahi’s deities to help the poor man make it through the night alive.

He finished cleaning his area and walked up to the desk, feeling slightly giddy about seeing Semi again, wondering if he even remembered who Tendou was. He wiped his sweaty palms across his jeans and tapped on Akaashi’s shoulder, who was for some reason agreeing with the gray-haired guy’s idea to have a horned owl with sunglasses tattooed across his ass and lower back with a comic book dialog box saying, “Caw Caw Motherfuckers.” Normally, Akaashi would be ripping him a new one, tearing his idea apart with cool indifference and refusing to tattoo such a travesty into the world (the same reason he wasn’t allowed to meet with their 18-year-old clients) but now he was just nodding and even suggesting more elaborate edits. His eyes seemed to gleam as he led the stumbling, muscled dude over to his chair.

Tendou took in all of Semi, a light blush of alcohol on his cheeks and his usually sharp eyes softer, looking around lazily while he leaned bodily against the counter.

“Semi Eita, long time no see!”

Semi’s bottom lip pouted out and his eyebrows scrunched in, he looked around for whomever knew his name and his eyes eventually (sort of) landed on Tendou. He started smiling and the angels sang Tendou a nice tune when the light of heaven shone down upon him, “Oh wow! Neck tattoo guy! Give me a neck tattoo too! Then we can be twins!”

Tendou tried not to smile, to express to Semi the gravity of this situation, “I don’t think that’s a good idea bud. Maybe you should go home and-”

Semi tried to slam his fist on the table, missing but the skin of his knuckles and instead creating and impressive whoosh of air, “NO,” he pointed in Tendou’s direction, “I want a tattoo, now.”

Tendou held up his hands, not in the mood for an altercation this early in the night. He pushed the book towards Semi, “Okay, what do you want?”

Semi pushed the book back, “I don’t care just do it.” Semi crossed his arms in front of him and glared at Tendou. The reserved, calculating adult Tendou had met the other night had been replaced by a sniveling child. He should be more annoyed than amused but hey, love will do that to a man.

Tendou sighed in defeat, “Fine, but no neck tattoos.”

Semi followed Tendou behind the counter to his freshly clean chair and muttered, “Fine, you vanilla bean cake piece of shit.”

Tendou wasn’t exactly sure what any of that meant, but he also refrained from pointing out to Semi that he was, in fact, the one with the neck tattoos.

Semi held his arm out on the chair and leaned his head back in the headrest, falling asleep in an insignificant amount of time. Tendou decided to let him sleep, pulling out a sheet of tracing paper that he began sketching out a design for one of his clients earlier from the day on. He was surprised Semi was able to fall asleep, with all the noise his friends were making. Akaashi had already gotten into the main work of the tattooing, his sketch taking less time than usual, but still holding his usual talent, small details in the design giving the overall garrish and cartoonish idea a simple beauty. Tendou knew Akaashi was trying to get this guy to regret this in the morning, but the artist within him didn’t allow him to destroy a beautiful canvas like this man. He was bulky, but his muscles fell in perfect divots to place art and his back was smooth and unmarked. What little Tendou got to see of his ass wasn’t so bad either. He howled in pain every time Tendou brought the needle to his skin, several times he had to put the pen down to count to ten and breath, his deep, nearly-endless vat of patience running dry.

Asahi looked nearly ready to hurl as he searched the thin, small man’s body for a place to begin penning in his design. The amount of ink on the man was almost as expansive as Tendou’s own and his apparent inability to stop moving was only making it harder for Asahi to examine his work space. Tendou wondered if all bakers kept such interesting company.

Semi let out a short snore, a small dribble of spit gathering at the corner of his mouth. His arm that wasn’t currently presented to Tendou reached up to wipe the spittle off. He turned his head in his sleep, smacking his lips.

A lock of his dyed hair fell back from his ear, revealing a gentle line of black that cuffed Semi’s ear. Usually, Tendou would be disgusted, what was the point of painting your body with ink if you were just going to get something anyone could draw with a ballpoint pen? But something about the shape of it, the hidden quality intrigued him, and told him Semi wasn’t the kind of person who would take too kindly to getting anything random tattooed, it had to have meaning.

Tendou was struck with a sudden inspiration of genius. He pulled out his foulest-smelling and therefore most-permanent marker and scribbled out a quick note on Semi’s arm. He hoped the other guy wouldn’t be disappointed when he woke up the next morning with a chicken-scratched arm instead of a new permanent piece of art to regret forever.

 

*****

 

“What the fuck is this?” Hinata waved the offensively accurate rendition of the rose he had just bought on his piece of receipt paper at the less-than-friendly cashier, “What the fuck is this?”

The raven-haired tall stupid florist just glared at him with this stupid fish frown, “It’s a rose?”

“It’s good that’s what it is. Where the hell did you learn to do this?”

_ Kageyama _ (his nametag read) shook his head so his bangs fell in a V on his forehead, “Um, from my brain?”

Hinata rolled his eyes, “Yeah, sure, but I do art as a living and not even I’m this good. Like, what the actual fuck.”

“Maybe if you just stopped sucking you could do it,” Kageyama tilted his head, like this was an easy to grasp concept. Hinata wasn’t a smart kid, necessarily, no one had even failed to tell him, but he wasn’t  _ stupid. _ Per se. In a general sense of the word.

Yahaba placed a hand on his shoulder when he released a rather loud and uninhibited ‘oooh boy’. The complete gall of this… this… dumbass tall hot piece of ass. How dare he glare down at him with his dark blue eyes of sex. Yahaba whispered calming words to him and took the roses for Natsu out of his hand before he crushed them to a pulp in his tiny fists of rage.

Hinata looked to his favorite florist, Kenma at the next register for support. However, the bottle-blonde, stick-thin man seemed far too interested in whatever phone game he was playing to care about Hinata’s hurt pride.

Another florist appeared from behind a tower of baskets, where he seemed to reside constantly, creating arrangements of fresh greens or organizing vases. Usually they seemed to save that job for someone else, ever since the dude with the blonde hair with the weird monk-like dark lines through his buzz cut had a tendency to break the more delicate pieces. Now he was just organizing the baskets with a large bandage on his right hand, “Sucking could be a large part of your problem though.”

The hand on Hinata’s shoulder tightened and he had to take his flowers back. Yahaba flicked a carefully gelled lock of hair out of his face, “I beg your pardon Mr…” Yahaba squinted at the nametag vase-breaking boy had on, “Kyoutani?”

Kyoutani shrugged, “I’m just saying he should probably look into it.”

Now Yahaba ‘oooh boy’ed, “Listen here, you little emo f-”

“Can I help you gentlemen find something, or are going to continue harassing my employees?” A gorgeous man pulled back the curtains from a room where he’d been helping another young bride plan her perfect wedding and leaned against the wall, his tall figure making him seem imposing, even without his murderous glare. Kageyama crossed his arms smugly while Hinata and Yahaba apologized, ears red. Oikawa effortlessly let the curtains fall back into place and pointed a long, manicured finger in Kageyama and Kyoutani’s direction, “And you two, leave my little Chibi-chan alone, he keeps this small establishment running with his weekly purchases. Don’t make me sic Iwa-chan on you.”

Both of the florists stiffened at the mention of the dreaded Iwa-chan and got back to work, sweeping and organizing, respectively.

Hinata actually had a lot more to say to the dumbass florist, but a look at his watch told him he was late, so instead he bid Yahaba (who seemed very intrigued by the basket boy) goodbye and turned to run across the street to his favorite coffee shop, to the men who had given up basically everything to keep his sister safe.

 

*****

 

Kenma waited a good fifteen minutes before escaping the teenage angst and emotion-riddled environment that had become his workplace. If he had to listen to one more second of Kageyama’s prattling about Hinata (who he swore up and down he hated, but the blush of his cheeks disagreed with), of Hinata’s friend throwing sexual innuendos straight over the head of Kyoutani or of his business partner, Oikawa’s loud whining phone conversation with Iwaizumi, the poor suffering bakery owner next door, he would drown himself in the fish bowl arrangement he’d thrown together for the cooler this morning.

The first step outside was a breath of fresh air, which was unusual because he usually didn’t stray too close to windows unless the sun was particularly inviting, but today anything was better than the shop, even the chilly winter air. He considered just heading straight home and calling it a day, but the neon lights of the tattoo parlor and the soft tones of alternative rock called to him. Anyway, he hadn’t seen Kuroo all day and the man would be dying for his gossip fix. Plus Kuroo never expected him to have a reason to visit, they’d known each other long enough that just being in each other’s company let them know what the other was thinking.

Kenma zig-zagged through the cars parked up and down their street to the parlor, entering and setting off the metallic door buzzer. No one was at the front desk and Kuroo’s voice came from the back, welcoming whomever was at his door to come in. Kenma obliged. Kuroo was the only one in his nook of the parlor, everyone seemed to be working on someone. Tendou was doodling on some poor drunk man’s arm with his tongue sticking out, black marking the tips of his fingers. Asahi was sitting with his head in his hands, engaging in breathing exercises while a different drunk man, who was dwarfed by the tattoo artist, soothed him, assuring him that it was his own fault the needle had slipped and “Your art is really cool anyway, man. Like honestly my sleeve wasn’t complete until I met you.” Akaashi sat back in his stool, changing out tips and sanitizing things around him while he waited for his own client to stop crying long enough to continue into an eccentric piece that filled up a portion of his back. They all avoided looking at Kenma, and the room felt awkward, guilt hung in the air.

Kuroo had his back to his employees while he worked on a black and white line tattoo, which usually wasn’t a good sign. He liked working where he could see what was going on around him, and if he was making this much effort to focus; he must be pissed. He was wearing a thin black tank top that revealed the upper muscled of his back where they met his biceps. The strained with every minute movement of his hand as he glided carefully over the skin of his client. His tan skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat, a result of his aesthetic need for outrageously high heating bills. He placed his needle down on the tray beside him and stretched his arms up and back, pulling his muscles tight across his shoulders. Kenma was slightly offended by how nicely Kuroo’s back tattoos fit into the divots of his body, but he couldn’t seem to look away as his friend continued to stretch out his arms and back. One rather violent pivot at his waist resulted in a long procession of cracks up his spine, causing Kuroo to moan almost pornographically. The girl he was tattooing stared open-mouthed as he completed his post-tattoo ritual.

Kenma cleared his throat and Kuroo swiveled on his stool, an uncharacteristic frown on his face, “You ready to go, sweet cheeks?”

Kenma nodded, heading back out to the lobby while he waited for Kuroo to finish with his client. She paid quickly at the counter and left with a curious flickering glance between Kuroo and Kenma. The former who followed her quickly out the door after grabbing his smoke-stained jacket without even motioning at Kenma to follow.

Kuroo had already begun his rant, “-can’t believe they took drunk clients. It’s rule fucking number one and if I get a bad rep because of this, my entire business will go down the drain. Why the hell can’t they understand a simple concept like that? Fucking tattoo artists, always looking for a way to stick it to the man, even when ‘the man’ is one of them.” Kuroo pulled out a lighter and flicked it up, ruffling in his pocket with his other hand for his pack of cigarettes. He cursed when he found all pockets on his person empty.

Kenma rolled his eyes, “You threw them out last week, remember?”

Kuroo scoffed, “Why the hell did I do that?”

“Well according to you, smoking is a social construct designed to slowly kill off the human race.”

Kuroo narrowed his eyes in thought and bit his lip, “Well I wasn’t wrong.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a while longer, almost to Kenma’s apartment. Right before reaching the parking lot, Kenma grabbed Kuroo’s sleeve and stopped, getting pulled for a few steps before Kuroo got the message, “What’s up Kenma?”

Kenma pulled his scarf up to his nose, focusing on the smell of eucalyptus and effectively hiding his face and muffling his voice, in case Kuroo decided he didn’t want to hear what Kenma had to say, “Do you still want to hang out tonight, or are you too mad?”

Kuroo chuckled softly through his nose and took a couple steps closer to Kenma. He reached his hand up and gently pulled Kenma’s scarf back down around his neck and raked a hand through his long two-toned hair to push it out of his face, “Kitten, it would be the highlight of my evening to join you to watch whatever Netflix show you’re currently binging.”

Kenma shook his hair back into his face and pointedly avoiding Kuroo’s deep gold gaze, which would be sure to remind him how his heart had skipped a beat when his subconscious made the decision to remember in excruciating detail the moment he’d taken to admire his best friend’s body.

Kuroo led the way up to Kenma’s apartment, pulling his jacket off to leave in the middle of the entryway and flopping onto the couch. He grunted and reached underneath himself to pull the remotes out. He threw them to the coffee table, “Kenma,” Kenma closed the door behind him and placed Kuroo’s fallen jacket on a hook by the door, “Kenma, come massage me.”

Kenma stared at Kuroo blankly across the studio apartment, “No.”

Kuroo whines, flipping over on his back and opening his eyes wide. He looked ridiculous, “But I’m so tired.”

Kenma didn’t answer. Kuroo was always like this after a long day of work. He was like a cat, either demanding to be pet or ignoring everyone around him with an upturned nose and a flick of his tail. Kenma went to the fridge and pulled out a beer for Kuroo and an apple juice for himself, along with the last slice of pie he had. He opened a drawer and grabbed two forks, the sound of silverware clinking together drawing Kuroo’s attention enough for him to muster the energy to sit up. 

Kenma padded across the room and offered the cool ceramic plate to Kuroo. He took it gently, like a fragile artifact worth millions, “Kitten, you’re giving me pie?”

Kenma sat on a couch cushion on the edge to give Kuroo the room to both lean on him and spread out his legs while they finished off the last of final pie Kenma’s mother had sent him. She seemed convinced he was incapable of doing anything by himself still, even though he’d been a full-grown, self-sufficient human being going on almost a decade now. But she also sent pie, so Kenma let her believe what she wanted.

When they’d finished the pie, Kenma hooked his phone up to the television to stream the next episode of Troll Hunters, which Kuroo had fallen asleep in the middle of last time, but had expressed some sort of interest in. Kuroo always pretended to like what Kenma watched but Kenma knew most of it was for his own benefit. Troll Hunters admittedly wasn’t his favorite but Kuroo didn’t need to know that.

Kuroo furrowed his eyebrows as the show opened, “Kenma you don’t have to watch Troll Hunters just because I like it, you know they just uploaded a new whale documentary, right? Watch that instead.”

Kenma glared at Kuroo. It didn’t always have to be about him, he wanted to take care of other people too sometimes. Well. Really just Kuroo, other people were hard.

Kuroo sighed, “I know, but really, I’m probably going to fall asleep either way and you’ll need something to entertain yourself with while I occupy your lap.”

Before Kenma could hum his protest, Kuroo’s head was in his lap and he was grabbing Kenma’s phone from his hand to queue up the documentary. In moments, Kuroo was breathing deeply, the whales were singing while David Attenborough explained their every movement and Kenma’s hands were threading through Kuroo’s coarse but still soft hair. Kuroo always pouted a little in his sleep and would bring a fisted hand up to rest on Kenma’s thigh. These small moments with Kuroo in his apartment were some of the few when he felt genuinely warm. He could be content to sit on his couch, carding through Kuroo’s hair for all eternity if he didn’t know Oikawa would come bursting into his heaven the moment he didn’t show up to work to yell about how he couldn’t be expected to run a business without Kenma and throw himself onto the floor to throw a tantrum any two-year-old would be jealous of.

Kuroo mumbled in his sleep, and Kenma’s heart stopped. Kuroo had always been more honest subconsciously, and he’d been uttering the same four word phrase for the past week and a half. A phrase that wasn’t his to hear or know until Kuroo was ready for him to, and he clearly wasn’t. Kenma wasn’t sure if he was either. The first night he’d been sure he dreamed it, but to his mind’s discomfort and heart’s pleasure, like clockwork it kept happening. 

Kenma’s hand stilled in Kuroo’s hair as he said it again, whispered and sweet like every night before, “I love you, Kenma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it for the complete train wreck I originally had planned? Please feel free to leave comments or find me somewhere if you want to have a conversation about anything really! Thank you for reading!


	3. Tattoos, Flowers and Flour?????

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital having your stomach pumped or liver replaced or something?” Akaashi said, without looking up from the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! Here comes another chapter all thanks to my procrastination, all thank to finals. I'm thinking my chapters on this may start getting shorter, organization wise. Since there are a lot of romances and plot lines going on in here, I'm thinking of keeping each chapter to one pair. The story will continue chronologically but I think it may be better this way, the updates will also be A LOT faster. Anyway, GUYS I PROMISE I WON'T GIVE UP ON THIS OKAY?! I WON'T DO TO YOU WHAT HAS BEEN DONE TO ME!! THank YOu Lachesis, I know I never get done writing fast enough for you but, here we go. Enjoy guys!

Akaashi slammed his book, interrupted by the sounds of snuffling coming from underneath the desk. Akaashi planted his feet on the floor, leaning down to address the culprit, “Asahi, if you didn’t have time for the appointment, why did you tell him yes? He was a total dick.”

“I have plenty of time, it’ll be fine!”

Akaashi rolled his eyes, “No, you don’t,” they both knew Asahi had a weekly dinner with the cafe couple tonight. And if he didn’t go, Akaashi would be hearing about it for weeks.

Asahi pulled his knees up to his chest, scratching at carpet with his finger, “I’m sorry Akaashi.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Akaashi tossed Asahi’s planner down to him, along with the office phone, “Reschedule. It’s not too late. If worse comes to worse, I can do it for you.”

Asahi stiffened, raising his head to reveal a rare but passionate fire in his eyes, “No that’s okay”

Asahi crawled out from under the desk and started tapping on the phone. He cleared his throat and headed to the far corner of the shop. If there’s one thing (there were actually countless things) Asahi could be counted on for, it was his pride in his work. He wouldn’t let a single piece he’d promised to do, planned meticulously and sat down to think about leave his jurisdiction. If someone came to him with an idea, he would make it flourish and work with the customer to the best of his ability, ensuring their satisfaction and a break for his gentle nerves. Akaashi often wondered if this possessive work ethic was simply another facet of his docile nature, a defense mechanism against any criticism. If he did it better than anyone could, no one could yell at him, right?

Akaashi reopened his book, his next appointment not for another hour and a half. And of course, as the universe would have it, the curse of every avid book reader anywhere, a cool breeze entered the shop, bringing with it two loud voices. Voices Akaashi had dreamed of never hearing again and secretly hoped he’d be seeing soon. Even though this he would never admit to himself.

“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital having your stomach pumped or liver replaced or something?” he said, without looking up from the book.

Akaashi heard a sputtering voice he’d familiarized himself with the night before, “I-I no- we-”

“What my esteemed colleague is attempting the say,” the small man said, from what sounded like right behind counter. So they were entering anyway, it seemed. “Is that we thank you for your services to our drunken bodies last night and we would like to repay you in bread.”

Akaashi looked up, eyes narrowed, “In  _ what? _ ”

“Yeasty perfection, bro.”

Sure enough, both were holding up tasteful white paper bags from the bakery down the street, where Akaashi had always admired the displays in the window, but had never entered. He wasn’t really one for getting to know the neighbors.

He crossed his arms and gestured for them to set down the bags on the counter. They did so, quickly and obediently. Akaashi pulled a ball point pen from its haven behind his ear and used it to turn down a corner so he could peer inside.

“Aw come on, they won’t bite,” the man with a large owl now adorning his back said.

Unfortunately for the beautifully crafted pastries and confections in the bag, Akaashi had no such qualms about biting as he spotted a tiny bowed plastic bag of his favorites, baklava. He took the bag out from among its floury comrades, delicately opening the carefully crafted packaging then, as gracefully as he could, he shoved one of the honey-drenched phyllo pastries into his mouth. He may or may not have groaned pornographically, he was leaning more towards the former with how owl-head was staring, his mouth agape and possibly drooling. But truly what was to be expected, it had been so long since he indulged himself that the first sweet taste in his mouth was like the first drop of water to a dehydrated man in a desert.

He accepted the pastries with a nod of his head and by sweeping the lot off of the counter and into his arms, scouring them for any more hidden treasures.

While he was distracted, Asahi had snuck back in through the back, practically petrified after realizing they had visitors. He almost escaped detection too, except he was a huge clutz without an ounce of self preservation, and therefore he knocked a cart of very expensive inks to the ground, breaking two of the bottles open, resulting in splatters of an electric blue and bright orange to appear around the area, on Asahi in particular. He looked on in shocked silence as the two colors slowly mixed into a russet brown color. God he was a mess.

He jumped when a pair of small, fair hands joined his in picking the spilled contents off the floor. It was the same guy from the night before. The guy who had come in and made Asahi’s heart beat so fast with his general loudness and brightness that he had actually feared for his life. He even went as far as to go to the emergency room after work, just to make sure this was a normal reaction to interacting with 5 foot something spitfires. The nurse at the front had seemed annoyed at first, but after a nice conversation about her grandchildren and Asahi’s resemblance to them, she was a really nice person. She even gave him some advice (whether it was good or bad, Asahi wasn’t sure) but he gave it his best high-school-educated try. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, tried to stay calm. His hands continued moving blindly in front of him, groping at the bottled and placing them on the tray in front of him. His heart was starting to get the picture when suddenly a hand hit his and he yelped, eyes shooting open.

“Shit sorry,” the small man (Nishinoya, if he remembered correctly) in a voice that seemed uncharacteristically quiet. On closer examination, he moved slower too. Still faster than the average human, but the change was enough to look a little unnatural. Asahi wondered if it was for his benefit.

Asahi shrugged in on himself, “I-it was my fault for reaching b-blindly.”

Noya chuckled softly, “Maybe, but I meant for last night too, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Asahi dared a peek at Noya. He had his head down, he was drawing small patterns in the spilled ink, which probably wasn’t going to be good for his skintone. His cheeks were rosy, almost as much as they had been last night under the influence of alcohol, but this seemed different, somehow.

Noya looked up, and their eyes met, a split second that lasted an eternity before the feeling of nausea became too much and Asahi had to look away to make sure he didn’t throw up and actually eternally embarrass himself.

They worked in silence for awhile longer, slowly adjusting to each other’s presence. Noya began picking up speed and Asahi let himself unfurl from the half-fetal position he was curled into.

Asahi held up the tray, Noya placed the final bottle on it, and they both straightened. Asahi was used to looking down at people, and people looking up at him, but the difference between them was almost comical. Noya had to lean back on one of his feet, just so his head wasn’t turned at a 90 degree angle to see him. Noya smiled, a happy flash of teeth and crossed his arms in front of him, “So, how’s the weather up there?”

Asahi rolled his eyes and chuckled at the simple, overused question. If he had a quarter for every time he heard someone ask him that, he would have enough loose change to build them a tower so he could ask them, let them see how he felt.

“Asahi, I’m going to be super blunt right now,” Asahi wasn’t sure he was comfortable with bluntness of any kind but he was far too terrified of what Noya might say next to stop him from speaking, “I think you’re hella cute, and I would love to get to know you better. It would make me extremely happy if you’d go on a date with me this Friday.”

Asahi’s jaw dropped to his knees (not literally, since he was in fact now standing, a pretty hard place to have your knees near your face). He hadn’t been asked out in… well, forever. No one had ever seen interested after realising the punk-like bear of a man was a smol smol bean of a teddy bear. He had a hard enough time getting the courage to talk to friends, let alone crushes and significant others. This was new and overwhelming and exciting and he was almost positive his face was bright red. Also he was sweating. Profusely. He thanked god he’d chosen to wear black today.

Noya was still talking, “I mean, if that’s cool with you of course, I don’t want to scare you aware or anything but this is how I am so you might as well know now what you’re getting yourself into and-”

“Okay.” For once in his life, Asahi’s mind was working independently of his body, saying the words he wanted without worrying about what physical response would result. Noya paused, mid-gesture, mid-sentence.

“Okay?”

Asahi nodded, scuffing one of his feet on the tile underneath him, leaving a black mark from his sneakers Kuroo would probably yell about later.

“AWESOME!” Noya screamed, then repeated, in an almost whisper, “Awesome, I’m stoked.”

He pointed at Asahi’s arm, asking for a marker and writing down a 10 digit number with his name scrawled above it. He winked at Asahi, “I got the idea from that red-headed dude there, he’s got moves.”

Noya didn’t leave time for Asahi to stand awkwardly while trying to get his mouth to work around a response, just launched into a story about how one of his coworkers had burned an entire batch of brownies, he was so focused on the note written across his forearm.  _ So he’s a baker _ , Asahi thought. Asahi liked pastries. Could maybe even love them. He smiled and nodded along, his heart still beating a hole through his rib cage, but Asahi couldn’t seem to find it within him to care.

Bokuto sighed wistfully, Akaashi silently agreed as he pulled another delicacy from the bag. Asahi needed a little love, he worked so hard. He needed to know he deserved it. However, he was far too distracted by his treasure to whoop with joy. He felt Bokuto looking at him again, so Akaashi of course, glared suspiciously back.

“So does this mean I’m forgiven for being a drunken doofus?” the drunken doofus asked.

Akaashi devoured another square of baklava, sucking the remnants of honey off his fingers and into his mouth. The man coughed. Akaashi smirked.

“The drunken part, yes. The doofus part, no.” The doofus part had been slightly entertaining and he would have anyone apologizing for anything that had passed the long sentence of time on earth faster, if even for a moment.

“Unfortunately, the doofus part is just who I am as a person,” the man chuckled weakly.

Akaashi stopped gorging himself to give the man a proper look. As he had noticed last night, and his tight t-shirt revealed now, he was muscular, with beautiful skin and a pointed face that was just intriguing enough to keep him looking. Wondering what the amber depths of those eyes held, what mischiefs they promised. 

“Don’t worry, it’s kind of cute.”

Pastry-bringer blushed, adding to Akaashi’s point, so he was offered a baklava. He held up a hand, “Thank you but no,” he said. Akaashi pulled back his hand, and heart. He couldn’t be seen in the company of people like this. “I spent all morning trying to get them just right and I had to eat like, three trays all on my own or my boss would’ve killed me. I think I’m baklavout.”

Akaashi ignored the weak pun, focusing on the more important character trait that had just been revealed, “You. You made these?”

He nodded, “Yeah, I’m a baker.”

The glow from the fluorescent lights above them turned heavenly, bestowing baker boy with a halo of divinity. He held out a hallowed hand for Akaashi to shake, “I’m Bokuto Koutarou, by the way. Thanks for the sick ink.”

Akaashi accepted the handshake, strong and firm, like the rest of Bokuto, “Akaashi Keiji.”

He inhaled the final piece of baklava, this one somehow sweeter and thought how this was an acquaintanceship he could most definitely get behind.

*****

“Kageyama-kun I swear to God if you overwater that hydrangea because you’re thinking of that orange-haired elementary student again, not only will I report you to the authorities, I will shove this amphora vase so far down your throat I can see it from the other end,” Oikawa said sweetly, winking at a group of high school students who just entered as he said it.

Kageyama seemed impervious to Oikawa’s jab, the brat continued watering the bush, “Oikawa-san, I read an article in Florist’s weekly that said if you add a little more water than we have been, we can get better blooms.” Kageyama blushed, “And he’s perfectly legal and dumb and I’m not thinking about him.”

Oikawa’s eyes grew wide, “Shit, you can read?”

He wasn’t going to comment on the second half of Kageyama’s statement because while his employee may be prone to denial, he, the grand and knowledgeable Oikawa, knew a crush when he saw it. Not that he had ever had the extreme displeasure of having one himself. No, he was more often the object of said crush than the pursuer of one. Like that poor baker Iwaizumi next door, the poor man had it so bad for Oikawa it wasn’t even funny. Not that Oikawa minded. Iwaizumi was hot. Like capital “I’d tap that” H.O.T. The way his beautiful toned and tanned biceps carried those bags of flour out of the early morning delivery truck that Oikawa got up three hours earlier than necessary to witness. Or the way his chin tilted up defiantly to look Oikawa in the eye when he lovingly said, ‘Fuck off.’ Yeah, Iwaizumi had it so bad.

Oikawa abandoned his efforts to save his beloved hydrangeas, deciding it would be more fun to yell at Kageyama about it in the morning anyway. Oikawa abandoned the humid air of the store back under the pretense of keeping an eye on the students who were having a light saber battle with his ribbon display. He’d worked hard on crafting each individual loop of those fabric flowers and he’d be damned if a couple of kids ruined them.

It only took a few glances of his award-winning death glare for them to buy some very expensive merchandise with their parents’ money and be on their merry way. He waved at them as they hurried out the door and down the street, just in case they had any more quarrels to settle with the laundry list of phallic items artfully strewn about his store. As they crossed in front of Iwaizumi’s morning delivery truck man, Oikawa was almost certain one more item was going to be added to that list. One that kids could not play with, unless someone wanted to go to jail. Which Oikawa didn’t. He wasn’t sure if jail could handle him.

Iwaizumi lifted another burlap sack up onto his shoulders, which were on display for god and everyone to get their panties in a major twist over in his Under Armour (™) tank top. Oikawa pulled the strings of his apron tight. 

“Kageyama, give me your watering can,” Oikawa said, waggling his fingers at him.

“Why?” This kid must have a death wish, Oikawa swore on his childhood goldfish Carlos’s grave that he would make Kageyama suffer for every needless question that left that hellish Carlos-esque mouth of his. Oikawa had to say none of this, only heave out a sigh Elizabeth Bennett’s vexed mother would be proud of and fix Kageyama with the same look he’d given the ruffians to have the half-empty watering can in his hands and be on his way out the door.

Oikawa was hit with a rush of cold air and reminded that it was actually the middle of winter, even if the sn was out shining and there wasn’t a flake of snow outside. He was going to have a hard time explaining to anyone what he was doing outside in his plain white t-shirt and a watering can. The only plants he had outside had the ability to survive on their own or were made of fabric. Usually neither of which required his careful watering hand. Oikawa hid the can behind a large concrete pot that held a miniature evergreen that still smelled like Christmas. He picked at some of the bristles, peering through the arms at Iwaizumi, a tiger waiting for his prey. Iwaizumi plopped the bag he’d been holding by the bakery door with a huff, and Oikawa struck.

“Oh, Iwachan! What are you doing here?”

“If by ‘here’ you mean in front of my shop that I frequent daily, I would say I am working, doing my best to avoid the fuckhead of a florist that works next door.” Iwaizumi signed the clipboard the delivery boy was holding out and went back to the bags, “But seeing as I’ve failing in that area.” he squatted down, securing a bag on his shoulders again. “Would you mind helping me out here?”

“That would defeat the whole purpose of me being here,” Oikawa said.

Iwaizumi lifted himself up in one motion, his thigh muscles strained against the taut fabric of his dark, flour-dusted jeans, “Fuck off, Oikawa.”

Oikawa stuck out his lower lip, “But Iwachan, you’d be lost without me.”

Iwaizumi was already halfway up the steps to his shop, back turned to Oikawa. He grumbled something that Oikawa couldn’t quite make out, “What was that, Iwachan?”

“Nothing, twitfuck.”

Iwaizumi was struggling with the door, using a combination of his elbow and knee to try and jimmy the handle. And while the entire situation was at the same time arousing and amusing to Oikawa, he was getting cold, and the smell of baking bread and cinnamon was calling to him. He sauntered up to Iwaizumi and cleared his throat, then opened the door smoothly and welcomed him in with a swooping motion. Iwaizumi gruffly thanked Oikawa and dropped his bag of goods behind the counter which was still filled with an assortment of colorful and artistic pastries. One situated in the corner caught his eye, 

“Oh my god, is that an alien? Like a Sigourney Weaver alien?” Oikawa moved closer to get a look, pushing his nose up against the glass. He was sure it wasn’t a good look for him, but there was an honest to god bread alien in front of him. It was the most glorious thing he’d had the opportunity to lay eyes on, “Iwachan it  _ is _ , what inspired this masterpiece.”

Oikawa pushed himself back up on the glass, Iwaizumi sputtered out a few obscenities. He was trying to pass off the blush on his cheeks as anger, but Oikawa had seen him embarrased often enough to know the look. “I got inspired after you forced me to do that marathon, I had to make it or it would continue to torture me into the night,” Iwaizumi said.

“You liked it, Iwachan.”

“No, I fucking hated it.”

“Well you like me, at least.”

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

“Fuck you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it through! Please comment and or leave kudos, whatever floats your favorite form of boat!


	4. I Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shop’s growing clientele was all Kageyama’s doing, and Oikawa hated it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER NEW FORMAT GUYS! I think I’m going to do this more short-storyish. I’m not 100% sre and honesty this fic is going to be a huge mess but I think each chapter with focus on one set of people (like bakers,florists, tattoo artists) This chapter is florists! Chapter lengths will vary depending on relevant content but I’m thinking shorter is better for now. I know it’s been a long wait but don’t give up on me yet! This is a florist chapter but no Kenma since the last chapter ended with his POV and honestly I can’t think of any sort of progression for him right now! I’m at a stand still!

Much to Oikawa’s dismay, his hydrangeas  _ did _ look better in the morning. While there hadn’t been enough time for Kageyama’s promised raised rate of growth, they definitely looked more vibrant, like high school girls after their first kiss. The petals seemed to have grown, somehow and where Oikawa had previously only seen a small gradients in color he could now see at least 20 different shades, at least five of which he hadn’t been aware existed. In fact, the entire store was blooming. Plants that he had been trying internet witchcraft on before pawning off on Kageyama were three times the size they started as and he swore every time he walked into the store he could hear the rain forest, even though the soundtrack was the most recent Two Cellos album on repeat and they hadn’t had a working fountain for weeks that could supply the waterfall sound he swore always seemed to twinkle at the back of his mind. 

And the arrangements were selling like hot cakes. People would come in, looking for last minute bouquets for apology or anniversaries and walk out with orders for $200+ with flower combinations Oikawa hadn’t ever heard of but when he put it together in his head, were beautiful, ethereal.

The shop’s growing clientele was all Kageyama’s doing, and Oikawa hated it. Kageyama was a bratty little kid he wasn’t allowed to be  _ talented.  _ Especially not at something Oikawa had worked so hard on, something he’d given up other dreams for, a whole other life for. He’d built up this shop from the ground, even sleeping on the floor of it after the complex had shut off the heat for the night, before Suga had found him huddled there one cold morning and taken him in, before he had finally built a name for himself and mastered his craft.

Kageyama was still too young to understand his struggle, and too naive to appreciate how talented he was and Oikawa was ready to fucking deck the kid. He would’ve fired him by now, but, those hydrangeas did look  _ damn  _ good and at this point he had customers who would come in and ask specifically for Kageyama’s work and even he wasn’t petty enough (or rich enough) to turn away reliable business.

After completing his morning routine of preening the greens he had artfully hung around the store and refilling the flower cooler with pre-priced arrangements, he took another moment to seeth. He didn’t know what is was about the kid that got so under his skin. He was motherfucking Tooru Oikawa. He was  _ the best of the best _ . No amount of talent or effort could defeat him and yet, here he was, all worked up over a good worker who respected him enough to show up to work on time and do whatever menial tasks of labor Oikawa threw at him in an attempt to throw him off his game.

He glanced at the clock, five more minutes until open. As if on cue, Kageyama and Kyoutani walked in from the back, both of them pulling on their aprons. Oikawa took one look at Kageyama’s scowling face and decided he didn’t want to be around when the first regular customer came in and announced something about how beautiful the hydrangea plants were looking. He grabbed his wallet from his apron pocket and flung the garment off, throwing it into a basket at the back of his workspace without looking.

“I’m going out,” he said, pointing at Kageyama, “You, go in the back and process the flowers, make sure each one is perfect and don’t maul my gerber daisies, I want one inch cuts up the stems,” Kageyama scoffed, Oikawa ignored him and pointed to Kyoutani, “And you, man the front just please, for the love of  _ god _ don’t break anything.”

If something broke he would have to blame Kageyama and he figured even for him that was low.

Oikawa started walking to the front, mind already deliberating on what new pastery he should beg Iwaizumi to make today when Kageyama yelled angrily after him, “Hey, what the fuck Oikawa-san, why does Kyoutani get to man the front, he can’t even speak!”

Oikawa raised a hand flippantly and called back, “Even Kyoutani has more social tact than you Kageyama.”

 

****

 

Kageyama stomped his foot against the padded floor of the work area, effectively drowning out any noise he could’ve made and making him look ridiculously, but he was too angry to be embarrassed, “The fuck does he mean by ‘social tact’ anyway?”

Kyoutani shrugged. Kyoutani actually hadn’t been listening to a word that Oikawa had said. Usually when he talked, all he could hear was the sound all of the adults from any Charlie Brown special had said, except with more obnoxious hair flips and in that sing-songy tone that Oikawa thought made him look cute, but really just made him sound immature as hell. Between his whining and Kageyama’s screaming matches with the tiny redhead, he had a constant migraine.

“I’m  _ tactful _ . Old ladies fucking  _ love  _ me,” he said, before narrowing his eyes at Kyoutani. “Do old ladies love you?”

Kyoutani shrugged again, leaning down by a succulent to remove a ladybug that he placed on a more hidden plant, where Oikawa couldn’t find it. Animals were great, animals didn’t talk  _ and _ they wouldn’t pretend like he respected them and tell him what to do.

Kageyama continued to speak, despite Kyoutani’s silence. “I mean, I may not be the  _ best _ speaker, but at least I don’t look like a straight up gang member.”

The scary look was intended, a way to ward off people Kyoutani deemed too weak to be friends, but still the pointed comment hurt.

“I can be quiet when I need to be,” Kageyama grumbled. Kyoutani seriously doubted that.

Kyoutani moved closer to the front of the shop, where Kageyama had been banned, to try and drown out his complaints. As he moved from room to room, he could pick up small ambient sounds from whatever region the color was meant to represent. The green plants had the flowing, unknown sounds of the rainforest, while the sunflower room sounded like wind rushing past the tall stalks of the flowers.

It was nice to see that Oikawa still hadn’t found his sound boxes, his only respite from his co-workers insanity. Flowers were nicer than people. Not that he, himself was the poster child for good behavior, or had any claim of authority that allowed him to judge others, but as a member of the human race he recognized that a majority of people were simply looking out for themselves, no matter what, and that pissed him off. It reminded him of authority, and he just didn’t see what gave other people the right to tell him what to do or how to live his life, especially when they could give less than two shits about him.

His “less than stellar” attitude (as Oikawa put it) and young delinquent appearance just warned people of what they would be getting if they talked to him and (surprise, surprise) most people weren’t willing to work for a friendship.

Kyoutani was disturbed from his attempts to look as careless and angry as possible while going through his constant existential crisis that it took three tries for whoever what behind him to get his attention, each time the intruder (probable customer) having to clear his throat a little louder.

Kyoutani finally turned around, preparing himself to look a little less angry in front of whatever person was about to drop their life problems on him, then giving up entirely when he saw it was the man who had come in yesterday and berated him for stating his mind.

The man was just slightly taller than him, which pissed him off. And reminded him of Oikawa, with his perfect face and perfect hair, which pissed him off. And he looked at Kyoutani like he wanted to see what was inside, which didn’t piss him off, but definitely annoyed him. Because he also wanted to know what this guy was thinking. They stared at each other, appraising what they couldn’t say with words.

The longer Kyoutani looked, the more the man seemed to soften. His eyes were a dull sort of brown color, a similar ashy tone to his hair and he had kind eyes, they downturned slightly like a puppy’s and his face was fixed in a small frown that almost resembled a pout. He was, for lack of a better word, cute.

Kyoutani felt himself start blushing so he frowned even deeper, to show how this displeased him.

“You know, for flower shop employees you two are kind of little shits,” the man finally said, before sticking a hand out in front of him. “I’m Yahaba Shigeru, by the way.”

Kyoutani stared at the man’s outstretched hand then back up at him, raising an eyebrow. He said, “Okay.”

Sometimes the sound of his own voice surprised him, he rarely found reason to talk, so it was slightly gravelly with misuse and even without trying, he was able to sound like an asshole. It was a gift he prided himself on, and thanked his ancestors for.

Yahaba’s eyes narrowed, he looked ready for a fight. Kyoutani’s heart skipped a beat, he could vaguely remember the emotion he was feeling to e excitement and he realized that for some reason he might care enough about whatever this man was about to say to fight back.

 

*****

 

Kageyama watched from his safe place behind the counter while Kyoutani slowly grew more and more agitated at whatever the man who had yelled at them yesterday (not the cute one, the tall one) was saying. He silently gloated and made a mental note to tell Oikawa about how his “socially tactful” worker had berated and scared away a potential customer while he doodled on a discarded piece of receipt paper. 

He heard the man say something about Kyoutani having ‘hackles’ which Kageyama thought was dumb because, only animals have hackles, and Kyoutani was definitely human, Kageyama had had him tested. In secret, of course.What had started as a picture of an arrangement he would start working on tomorrow for a small anniversary order had turned into birds which had turned into a portrait of that little twerp who had come in yesterday.

No one had ever  _ complained _ about his drawings before. Usually he got really nice compliments and scholarships to prestigious schools that eventually fell through when they got teacher evaluations so he hadn’t really known how to handle it. His body seemed to go with agitation as the proper response so his brain had just gone with it and things had gotten out of control, but really, who yells at someone for being  _ good _ at something?

Who puts their own flaws on display in the middle of a fight anyway?  _ Who? _

The point of his pen tears a hole into the paper where he’d been drawing too hard and Kageyama realizes it had been  _ hearts _ . He feels a flush come to his face and he crumples up the paper, throwing it into the nearest trash can before anyone sees or his subconscious (or conscious, it didn't really matter they were all the same to him) could begin to try and process what he just caught himself doing and make sense of it.


End file.
